


Fifteen

by Blood and Weetabix (melchiorstiefel)



Series: People-Watching [1]
Category: Nothing Much to Do
Genre: Balthazar POV, Coming Out, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, Threeshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2704394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melchiorstiefel/pseuds/Blood%20and%20Weetabix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It happens when you're fifteen. You never intended to let it slip, but it did.</em>
</p><p>  <em>And honestly, you cannot really say that you regret it.</em></p><p>Part one of a three-part series about coming out - "People-Watching".</p><p>This part: Balthazar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteen

It happened when you were fifteen. You never meant to let it slip, but it did.

And honestly, you cannot really say that you regret it.

* * *

It's an autumn morning, and you find yourself lying on the hill in the park, slowly picking at the ukulele. Playing the tunes on repeat in your mind. Humming under your breath. Zoned out and peaceful, just letting the world pass you by.

You like this: the days when you have nothing much to do but to lie in the grass, relaxing and watching the people around you. Sometimes, you like to make up absurd backstories for them, like maybe the businessman who just barely dodged the frisbee is a secret agent working for the French government; or maybe the kids playing football far to your right are all going to find themselves on rival national teams someday.

You could spend all day here, if it weren't for being interrupted.

"Balthy!" Pedro calls, and waves as he jogs up the hill toward you.

You break momentarily from your strumming to wave back, but your right hand gravitates back to your uke almost immediately. Your left hand has stilled now, a continuous Csus4 sounding from the instrument as Pedro closes the final few metres.

"What's up, Balthy?" Pedro asks, tilting his head to one side appraisingly, before unceremoniously collapsing into the grass beside you.

You're acutely aware of where his left bicep rests against your right one, of where his knee brushes against your thigh.

"I'm just lying here. Relaxing. Watching the world go by. Y'know..." you shrug non-committally, finally muting the ukulele and laying it in the grass to your left. You fold your hands across your chest, and return your gaze to the people playing in the field below you.

Pedro doesn't say anything for a while, and if it weren't for his skin pressed flush against your right side, you could almost forget he was there. When he does speak, it's simply to say "this is nice."

* * *

Pedro was never able to deal with silence for long, so you're unsurprised when, after half-an-hour, he decides that conversation is necessary. You like talking to Pedro - it's easy, and it's freeing. But his voice tugs at something within your chest, and every answer you give feels like a half-truth.

"We gotta get you a girlfriend!" he suddenly announces, with the kind of enthusiasm normally only exhibited by four-year-olds.

You groan internally, and it's only when Pedro says "No, come on, who do you like the look of?" that you realise you also moaned out loud.

"I don't know." You try to dodge the question, but Pedro is nothing if not persistent.

"Really? Well... What about that girl?" He points down the hill towards a girl of around sixteen, talking on her phone. She has blonde hair and is dressed in denim shorts and a vest-top, which you suppose is practical given the weather.

You figure you ought to give Pedro what he expects. "She's alright," you shrug. Not exactly a lie. She's certainly attractive enough, and you're sure she's a very nice person.

"See, you do know your own mind," Pedro's grin fills your vision as he sits up to pull down his t-shirt.

This goes on for a while: Pedro pointing out girls, almost invariably blonde-haired and in clothing that shows off their midriffs. He doesn't seem to notice that your response to every girl he points out is the same. "She's alright."

You figure Pedro just likes to feel useful.

Finally, he points to a girl walking across the field with a friend. She is another of Pedro's blonde-haired archetypes, and by this point every one of them looks exactly the same to you. But her friend is animatedly waving his arms around as he describes something—they're too far away for you to hear their conversation, but he certainly seems passionate about the topic.

"Balthy?" Pedro prompts, and you realise that you haven't responded to his question yet. "What do you think about her?"

You don't know what comes over you. You swore to yourself eight months ago that you would never say anything to anyone. But this is Pedro, and he's been your best friend since you moved to Messina at the beginning of the year. You don't feel right keeping secrets from him.

After what feels like an hours-long internal battle, you say it.

"I dunno," you say. "I think her friend is more my type."

Instinctively, you clutch for your ukulele, and turn your head away.

This is the part where it all goes wrong. You know that this is the moment where Pedro runs away, where he pretends you were never friends and leaves you alone in the grass.

"Oh." he says, instead. "Sure, okay."

You turn your head back cautiously to look at your best friend, but his eyes are trained on the field, searching for something.

"Well, erm..." he starts. "What about that guy?"

You follow his gaze over to a boy sitting under a tree, reading a book and smiling softly to himself.

You giggle lightly, and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your chest.


End file.
